Bingo: The Eclectic Challenge
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: A collection of 5 short stories, each stand-alone, one-shots that represent the following prompts: AU Historical, Mutually Unrequited, Amnesia, Met on the Internet, and Domestic Fluff. Five-in-a-row bingo. Dedicated to I'm Nova. Ch 4 & 5: A Revenge Not Worth Remembering (for the prompt, "Mutually Unrequited") & Pink Fluff (prompt: Domestic PLETE.
1. Chapter 1

The following five chapters are dedicated to **I'm Nova.** Without her continual, gentle encouragement to get around to writing for these five prompts, I would never have re-engaged my fan fiction writing skills.

**A Complicated Case**

_Sometimes knowing the answer to the mystery does not guarantee an automatic solution to the problem. Set in the 1930s._

_Written for the prompt, "AU: Historical". _

_Warnings: medical jargon perhaps_

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><p>Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, leaned against the mantel of the fireplace, considerately refraining from lighting up his customary tobacco pipe given his client's unusual objections.<p>

Mrs Mary Scott was a force of nature not to be taken lightly. Her fiery red hair bespoke of an equally strong and opinionated woman. And yet, her characteristic zeal was somehow smothered under a shroud of sorrow as she sat opposite Holmes and dabbed the corners of her eyes with her lace handkerchief.

"I'm do apologise, Mr Holmes, for imposing on your customary smoke. Normally it doesn't bother me, but for these past 9 months, I just can't seem to stomach the odour of the fumes."

Mr Holmes made no comment but merely nodded in acknowledgement of her statement. "Pray, continue your story, Madam."

Another tear rolled down Mrs Scott's face as she began. "You see, my husband and I have been married for 5 years now. I have been to the police begging for their assistance but they will not believe me, or else they seem not to care. You are my last hope, Mr Holmes, to find my baby!"

Holmes startled ever so slightly from his reverie at this rather incongruous statement in light of her present pregnant condition.

"You see," she continued, "little Thomas has been missing for one week, as of today. I am desperate to find him as my husband and I have been wanting a child ever since we were married."

Eagerly she pressed on with her tale while Holmes remained passive and Watson found himself seated more erect and on-edge in his chair. "Last week, Doctor Brown delivered baby Thomas at the hospital. He claims that the child died during the birthing process. At first, I was devastated when I work up from the anesthesia. I cannot begin to tell you how much I cried." Her eyes welled up with tears again and her petite frame shook with silent sobs.

Holmes cleared his throat and impatiently gestured for her to focus on the facts of her story.

Mrs Scott took a deep breath and resumed. "After a few days of crying, I began to think. I asked my husband if we might have a proper burial for my baby in spite of his premature demise. But, my husband said it wasn't possible. There was no body. So, I began to doubt. I went back to Dr Brown's office. The nurse who assisted the doctor in deliveries was evasive. Finally, I confronted Dr Brown."

She looked up at Holmes at that point. Her tear-stained faced suddenly took on a granite determination.

"Mr Holmes, I may be a simple housewife, but I know when a man is lying. Dr Brown lied to me when he said little Thomas was stillborn. When I demanded to see the corpse, I was told it was not possible."

A smouldering fire kindled in her eyes as she continued. "I must find my baby – dead or alive – I must know what happened to him. I know Dr Brown is withholding the truth. I don't know why but I will find out. I will pay whatever it takes. Will you help me?"

Holmes stood motionless before the mantle for a considerable amount of time. At last, he opened his eyes and refocused them on the client. "Mrs Scott, your story has several peculiar facets that may prove to be most interesting. I thank you for coming and bringing your case to my attention. I accept your case."

"Oh, thank you so very much," Mrs Scott gushed with such enthusiasm that Watson feared Holmes might change his mind after all.

Suddenly though, their fiery redheaded client let out a loud exclamation of pain. "Ooo…" she moaned.

Dr Watson, his clinical instincts instantly on the alert, arose to her assistance.

"No, no, doctor. You mustn't disturb yourself. Really. It's just a contraction. My labour pains have been increasing in frequency today. Perfectly normal labour just like last time, I assure you. Everything is under control."

From the alarmed expression on Holmes' face, he did not appear comforted by Mrs Scott's assurances.

"Madam," he asked, his voice a touch higher in caliper than perhaps Watson was used to, "you say that labour pains are upon you now?"

"Yes, of course, Mr Holmes," the very pregnant client explained calmly. "Don't worry though. I have everything prepared. I will not be going back to Dr Brown for my delivery either." She clutched the small of her lower back as she struggled to rise from her seated position.

As she rose, Watson couldn't help himself. "But, Mrs Scott, I understand you to say that you want my colleague to help you find your missing infant, Thomas, whom you delivered a mere one week ago?"

"Yes, that's correct, Doctor," Mrs Scott innocently replied. "Don't you see? The baby I'm carrying right now deserves to grow up with his twin brother. Dr Brown delivered my first baby, Thomas, last week. This is the second baby, his twin that I'm sure I will soon deliver. I must have both my babies."

Without noting Holmes' surreptitious arch of an eyebrow and narrowing of his keen, grey eyes, Mrs Scott wrapped her cloak about her protuberant belly and exited the flat.

"Well, what do you think of that, my dear Dr Watson?" Holmes flopped into his chair and promptly lit his pipe. His eyes lighted with unexpected excitement. "Clearly the biological facts do not add up to the sum of the story that meets our, as yet, superficial observations. Even for the non-medical, one knows that babies are born at nine-month intervals, not every one or two weeks. What kind of tangled tale is Mrs Scott trying to spin?"

Watson rose and walked over to his desk, leafing through his medical journals for a full ten minutes before replying. "Holmes, I do believe this case calls for a professional chat with the much put upon Dr Brown, don' t you agree?"

"He is a man that has been falsely accused, if I'm not mistaken, and who might be given praise if circumstances were otherwise, for his creative solution to a very complicated medical diagnosis."

Watson frowned. "And, his solution, though it must be given high marks for singular ingenuity, unfortunately, did not quite succeed."

Several hours later, Holmes and Watson returned from a long chat over tea with the must bespoken about Dr Brown.

"Watson, I must confess, I feel I shall never quite get your limits, " the austere detective looked over at his friend and flat mate. "There are times you continue to amaze me."

In a rare burst of humility, he admitted, "I would not have deduced the solution to this case without your clinical acumen. I fear that the lady's lack of a protruding naval did not enter my mind as the vital clue to which this entire case hinged upon."

Unused to such praise, Watson blushed. "As you have so oft quoted to me, Holmes, 'once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'. It was a simple matter of asking Dr Brown whether he noticed if Mrs Scott had a bulging umbilicus or not. The good doctor had observed her anomalous concave naval in spite of her swollen abdomen. Quite accurately, he deduced my own suspicion that she was suffering from the rare, but not unheard of, clinical condition called pseudocyesis or false pregnancy."

Watson and Holmes exchanged knowing glances. "She wanted a baby so desperately that her brain tricked her body into creating the correct cocktail of pregnancy hormones in her bloodstream that induced the physiological changes of pregnancy - skin mottling, mammary milk-production, lower belly swelling, even the sensation of fetal movement. The clue is that the victim's naval fails to protrude outward as in a true pregnancy."

"When you've eliminated the impossible pregnancy, whatever remains…" Holmes muttered under his breath.

Watson sat quiet a moment, thinking. Finally, he smiled over at his friend. "What about titling this case, 'The Sign of the Naval"?

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><p><strong>AN: This story is based on a clinical case described by Silas Weir Mitchell in 1932. Pseudocyesis or false pregnancy is not a new phenomenon though. It has been described as far back as 300 B.C. by Hippocrates. Apparently, Mary Tudor, Queen of England was afflicted twice by this condition!**


	2. Ch 2: Bullet-Shattered Memory

**Bullet Shattered Memories**

A/N: The scenario is based on a compilation of real clinical case notes.

Prompt is "Amnesia"

Warnings: Angst, Medical Terminology

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><p>He's not himself," Mycroft warned. "He's changed since you've been gone."<p>

"Nonsense," Sherlock scoffed. "He couldn't forget me completely."

"You don't understand these things," Molly empathically declared when Sherlock persisted. "It's a neurological disease. A disconnect between the temporal lobe of his brain that deals with facial recognition and his amygdala that processes emotions. He can't reconcile the disconnect. His brain will deny your existence."

"Rubbish, I've made more of a lasting impression than that," Sherlock was far too narcissistic for Molly's taste. She shook her head sadly.

"Be nice. Just because he doesn't recognize you, he may still come to like you," Mrs Hudson cajoled.

"He'll recognize me," Sherlock strode into the flat.

"Who are you?" The fair-haired ex-army man in the chair lounging by the fire reading the paper asked with a curious stare. His ocean blue eyes examined the tall dark-haired man before him with clinical precision.

"Umm…Sherlock Holmes, of course," the detective tried unsuccessfully to disguise his momentary confusion. What was John saying? He was expecting an indignant outburst or a punch in the nose, but this? This was unimaginable.

"Look, John, I realize I've been away for 3 years and this must come as a bit of shock to you." His eyes suddenly looked down and studied the pattern on the rug intently, avoiding his former flat mate's troubled face. "I suppose leaving you like that, assuming me dead and all, might not have been ideal…" His voice trailed off. He looked back up as the man strode over to him for a better look.

"Please, let me explain," his initial confidence evaporated as he noted the other man's blank expression.

"You are not Sherlock Holmes," he slowly enunciated. "Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. He died. My best friend is dead." The blond man rolled his broad shoulders back and his voice took on a more confident ring. He looked steadily at the detective standing before him. He stared into the others steely gray eyes. For several moments the two remained, impassive, silent, locked in eyeful soul-searching.

Finally, John turned away. "No, you can't be him. You look like Sherlock. You speak like Sherlock. You wear his clothes even, though I can't imagine how. But you are an impostor."

"It's not true! No one can imitate me this well." Sherlock insisted. He grabbed John by the shoulders. "Look again."

John stared impassively at the man before him. He shook his head. "No, you look like him but you're not him."

Over and over, Sherlock tried to convince John. He showed him every scar. He told him every secret. Undisclosed facts he'd never even admitted to himself. John remained unconvinced.

"How can I persuade him it's really me?" Sherlock went to John's psychiatrist one day.

"It's not possible, Sherlock. He suffers from what's termed a delusion misidentification syndrome caused by an organic brain lesion. There's nothing anyone can do or say that will convince him otherwise. His brain simply cannot reconcile the fact that your familiar face is not associated with any emotional input from his severed amygdala and infero-temporal cortex."

But Sherlock couldn't rest. He was obsessed with forcing John to remember him. One day he gave John a gun.

"Why are you giving me this?" John asked with a quizzical face.

"John, somewhere, deep in your brain, I think you know that I'm not an impostor. I am the real Sherlock Holmes. The man you wept over at the cemetery and said was the bravest and wisest man. Somewhere, I believe, even though you might not be conscious of it, I think your brain knows that I'm alive and I'm back. I promise, John, I'll never do such a thing to you again. I'll never leave you. Believe me. Just this once, I beg." His eyes bore into John's troubled gaze.

John took the gun without comment.

"John," the detective continued, "I've given you this loaded firearm because I believe that deep in your heart you can remember me and you won't shoot. But, if you truly cannot remember me – you examine each fibre in your psyche and cannot ever imagine that I am really Sherlock Holmes, your friend, then you can pull the trigger. I don't believe you will but if you do, perhaps it's better that way."

"But, Mr Holmes," John stammered uncertainly. "What have you done to merit such a death? I don't execute innocent people. Only the guilty." No glimmer of recognition shone from his clear blue eyes as he spoke from true loyal soldier's integrity.

"If you truly cannot remember me. If I am just an impostor to you…" Sherlock's voice broke and tears threatened to spill. He bit his lower lip till it bled. "Then I am a murderer; for, I've killed my best friend."

Mrs Hudson heard the shot from downstairs.


	3. Ch 2: A Fine Match

**A Fine Match**

A/N: This story references a character in another talented fan fiction writer's composition, **AOB**. Her name is Angel. To read more about this amazing Angel, check out **AOB'**s story "**Angel's Don't Die."**

Prompt: "Met On The Internet"

Warnings: sarcasm

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><p>A thousand questions swirled around Sherlock's mind. What would she be like? Would she like him? And, most importantly, would she be bored by the real live version of him?<p>

Perhaps they wouldn't have enough in common to carry on a coherent conversation? What if they both found themselves at a loss for words? Would they resent each other for such an awkward situation?

Seriously, what was he thinking when he agreed to her visit to 221B? The tall detective felt his fingers constrict cold and his palms sweat. What was that all about? Stupid body. How could he be nervous about meeting her? It was ridiculous. He was Sherlock Holmes, the great bohemian detective that was married to his work and remained free from relationships.

He scrubbed his sweaty palms through his thick raven hair, only amplifying his chaotic curls. Damn these musings! Irrational emotions! He was supposed to be above such fickle feelings.

Just then John came back from inspecting the flight arrival board. "Relax, Sherlock. It'll be fine. If you can chat for hours on the Internet forum regarding the minutia of the chemical properties of tobacco ash, you can certainly find something else in common."

Sherlock groaned. He wasn't convinced. People were too unpredictable. Relationships were messy, prone to a whole host of uncomfortable misunderstandings.

John gave his edgy flat mate a soft jab in the ribs with his elbow causing the younger man to stumble momentarily. "Pay attention, genius," he chuckled, "I think I see her." John gave an almost imperceptible low whistle. "Not bad. For a borderline antisocial psychopath who swears he isn't into women, she's a fine looking specimen of the female gender."

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. His keen face scanned the crowds of passengers tunnelling out of customs. At last, he resolutely shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled as nonchalantly as possible over to a blond, athletic looking female dressed in jeans and an attractive pink shirt. She looked as if she'd be as much at home in the gymnasium as the opera house.

"Angel?" Sherlock reached out a hand to the confused passenger, trying to keep any hesitation out of his voice.

"Ah, Sherlock," Angel spun round and smiled up at the tall detective, vibrant energy shivered through every fibre of her being. "Pleasure to meet you in real life at last."

She tilted her head and examined him critically from head to toe. "Not half bad." With a twinkle in her clear blue eyes she continued. "I'll give you a p-value greater than or equal to 0.05."

Sherlock gave a start. This must qualify as one of the most unique compliments he'd received. Thinking quickly, he replied, "Glad to hear such. So, you fail to reject me just yet then?"

The golden haired Angel rewarded Sherlock with a prim nod and a wink. "Of course, statistics are never static. I retain my claim to re-calculate your p-value as the facts reveal themselves. I must warn you that like the late Isaac Asimiov, I find people who think they know everything to be a great annoyance to those of us who do'."

Sherlock blinked. Interesting. He picked up her luggage and together they threaded their way through the crowds toward the exit of the airport. His mind rapidly took in her details, deducing. There was more to this woman than met the initial eye.

On the drive back to their flat, Angel sat alert and curious but said very little. She answered John's friendly questions of 'where are you from? What do you do?' with a soft succinct answer. Sherlock was too busy analyzing the situation and the real life version of his Internet friend to bother speaking out loud.

With an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, John tried to excuse his silent friend. "I'm sorry about him. He gets like this sometimes. He can think for days without talking. It's nothing personal."

Angel smiled with a deviant smirk in return. "It's perfectly ok. I understand. Besides," she paused for a moment, turning to glance up at the silent brooding genius opposite her, "I make it a habit never to judge anyone because they're overly quiet."

John smiled with relief. Glad she understood.

Then Angel finished her sentence. "No one plans a murder out loud, after all." She raised an elegant eyebrow and rewarded them both with a grin.

John laughed. He had no doubt that the two would get along swimmingly.

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><p><strong>AN: Dedicated to all those wonderful friendships formed online through a mutual interest in the esoteric and mysterious. Some we meet in-person; some we never will; either way, thankful for such bonds that break the cords of ennui!**


	4. Ch 4: Revenge

**A Revenge Not Worth Remembering**

A/N: There are perhaps worse ways of revenge than killing. What if Moriarty decided to take his vengeance another way? Some losses have a more sinister implication. Dedicated to Leylou97 who partly inspired this snippet by her story Putain d'escharpe. If you're familiar with the scarlet thread of murder from A Study in Scarlet…now you can become familiar with the blue scarf that ties Sherlock and John together…

Now, onto the second story in my BINGO series. Prompt equalled "Mutually Unrequited". Note the warning!

Warnings: Angst

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><p>Ice-tipped, wind-whipped fringes of military-grade jackets. Two men, strong and confident, plodded along the desolate beach while the deepening shadows of the night stretched ever grasping fingers over the landscape, turning the golden greens and blues black. The waves of the sea beat mercilessly against the shore, gripping desperately to the sand only to be wrenched back to their watery depths. Winter was approaching.<p>

As wisps of smoke escaped their mouths, the younger, shorter, blond soldier spoke to his comrade. "It's sure to be dangerous…have we covered for every contingency?"

"Almost, one more test remains before we can be certain of success," the sinewy elder man replied.

As they rounded a bend in the coast, a dim form lying upon the beach, coat tails slapping gently with the undulation of the waves, came into view. The tall slender form lay prostrate and still, face buried the soil.

The blond man approached cautiously. His hand ready on the trigger should it turn into a trap. He was far too experienced as both hunter and prey to take things at face value. Satisfied at last, he turned over the body that was clad in long black coat. A blue scarf still wrapped round the stranger's pale neck.

"Dead. From the state of rigor mortis I'd estimate at least 12 hours," the younger man stated without emotion.

"Cause of death?"

"Single gun shot to the head. Execution style, I'd say." The man studied the features of the pallid face for several more minutes. Dark, raven curls fluttered with the waves as they washed over the edges. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes dulled by death, reminiscent of molten steel.

"Recognize him?" the man knelt over the figure and his blond hair bent low over the form for a closer look.

"Never seen him. Let's go," his companion urged impatiently.

"Should we report him to the General?"

"Not on your life!" the other empathically replied. "Do you want to ruin our mission? We can't afford any notice by the local authorities."

The strong shoulders of the shorter man shrugged, resignedly. "You're right, Major Sebastian. Shall we continue?"

"By all means yes," he huffed.

The two men resumed their nightly vigil. Night engulfed them with its cloak of darkness. The winter wind howled in pursuit.

Later that evening, the Major settled into his quarters. "All is ready, General. The last contingency has been dealt with. He didn't recognize him. Project Memory Rehab is complete."

John turned uneasily in his bed. The dreams had returned.


	5. Ch 5: Domestic Fluff

**Pink Fluff**

A/N: Last prompt for the bingo challenge. Many thanks to those who have read along and stuck through both the angst and the sarcasm and everything else. You're encouragement means a lot! Merci! A special thanks to **Leylou97** and **AOB** for letting me use inspirations from their own creative stories.

Prompt: "Domestic Fluff"

Warnings: silliness abounds… oh, and fluff!

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><p>"Dryer lint? What are you doing with such detritus?" John set down the groceries and peered over the shoulder of his flat mate's dark curly head bent intently over his microscope, clearly absorbed in some pink fluffy material delicately arranged under the lens.<p>

The peering detective didn't bother to look up at John's return. He merely sighed the long-suffering sigh of a much put upon scientist fielding inane questions once again.

"Yes, John, I am examining minutiae of dryer lint and if you'd bother to turn on your brain cells now and then, you might realize that we do not own a dryer machine and therefore the material I have here is not detritus as you've so delicately termed it but rather valuable evidence in a murder case."

John didn't even try to point out that he hadn't accused the detritus of being unimportant.

"Dryer lint can be extremely revealing," Sherlock continued flipping to a higher magnification on his lens. A satisfying exclamation suddenly escaped his lips as the particles came into focus. "Ah, so the wife was lying. This changes everything."

"What?" John couldn't help his curiosity. "How does pink fluff from the dryer machine change a murder investigation?"

Sherlock happily related a tale of such gigantic pink fluffy proportions that the world is not yet prepared for it (1).

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><p>1. <em>"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson, ... It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared."<em>

- ACD, The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire


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